Title: Close To Finished

Author: Jeanine (jeanine@iol.ie)

Rating: PG

Pairing: Sara/Warrick

Spoilers: Pilot, Cool Change, Crate and Burial, Sex, Lies and Larvae, The I-15 Murders

Feedback: Makes my day

Disclaimer: If it was in the show, it's not mine.

Archive: At my site Checkmate (http://helsinkibaby.topcities.com/csi/csific.htm) , Fanfiction.net; anywhere else, please ask.

Summary: Warrick looks back on his life.

***

Her work in progress, that's what she used to call you. You used to hate it when she pulled that one out, because it always made you feel small, like you were less than you were. You used to roll your eyes, tilt your head to the ceiling and shake it in pure exasperation, but she never stopped doing it, and she always had that same small smile on her face when she said it. That smile that told you that she loved you, even if you were driving her crazy.

Looking back now, you know that it couldn't have been easy for her, raising a kid at her time in life. Her family was all grown up and moved away, until your mom came back home pregnant with you after your father split town on her. Pops had died the year before that, so it was just you and Mom and Grams until you were seven. That was when Mom went out for the night with the guy that she was seeing and never came back home again. You still remember being woken up by Grams's screams, and the image of her silhouette in your bedroom door when she came to tell you haunted your nightmares for years.

Although there were uncles and aunts who shook their heads and tutted over the idea of Grams keeping you - "So much work for you Mom," they'd always say - Grams was a stubborn woman, and she was determined that she was going to raise you. "This is the only home he's ever known," she'd thunder, banging her hand on the kitchen table for emphasis. "And he's going to stay here!"

Not that you made it easy on her, oh no. In grade school, things were fine, although you got in with a bad crowd towards the end. By high school, there wasn't a thing that you weren't mixed up in. Your grades were bad, your attitude was worse, and no matter how much she asked you to stay home, to study, to get a job, you didn't listen to her. You kept on doing just what you were doing, which is whatever it was you wanted to do. No-one owned you, not even Grams.

That lasted until the night you got home - the morning you got home rather - to find all the lights on and no-one home. You went from room to room, calling on Grams, getting more and more worried when you found she wasn't there. Then there was a gentle knock on the door, and it was Mrs Fisher from next door. She looked at you with a kind face and worried eyes and told you that Grams was in the hospital. That she'd managed to get to their place, somehow, someway; had managed to knock on their door before collapsing in Mr Fisher's arm. A heart attack she said.

It wasn't a long drive to the hospital, but it felt like it took days, and all you could think about was Grams in the house, alone and afraid and in pain, and you felt so damn guilty for not being there for her. You really did think that she was dead, and when the nurse in the hospital told you that she was going to be fine, but that she was going to have to take better care of herself from now on, you sat down in a chair and you cried like the baby you were always telling her you weren't.

You sat in that room with her all night, and you couldn't reconcile that pale woman with dark circles under her eyes, looking so small and fragile, with the strong, tough Grams that you knew. You couldn't understand how she got like this without you even noticing.

When she woke up, the first thing she did was tell you that she was fine. The second thing she did was ask why you weren't in school. You told her that you'd called the school, explained the situation to them, and that they understood about you missing class that day.

You swore when you were telling her that that it would be the last lie you ever told her.

And it was.

The next morning when you went to school, you actually went to class and you listened and you worked, thanking God that you were really pretty smart and that you seemed to have taken in more than you'd realised on the rare occasions you'd been to class. The teachers were surprised at your transformation into a model student, and more than a little suspicious, but in time, they realised that you were on the up-and-up, that you weren't just play-acting to make Grams happy.

You got an after school job, lots of them, to help Grams out with some money, but you knew that college was going to be a struggle, and you knew that she wanted you to go, so you worked extra hard and made sure you got a scholarship. She wanted the best for you, dreamed about Harvard and Yale and all those kind of places. You had the grades, you could have gone. But that would have meant leaving Grams, and by now, for you, that was out of the question. So you took a place at the University of Las Vegas, and instead of moving out and living in a dorm, or getting a place of your own, you stayed with Grams.

But college meant money, and Grams didn't have much, so you set about getting yourself another job, one that paid more. That's why you became a runner, because two grand a week into your hand went a long way to taking care of Grams and keeping you in textbooks. She never knew just how much money you were making, and you tried to do as much of the shopping, as much of the general housekeeping as you could, the better to keep it that way. You told her that you worked in the casinos, sure, but she thought that you helped with the books, or with transporting customers from place to place. "Jack of all trades Grams," you told her with a smile and a shrug. "You know me."

You'd sworn years before that you wouldn't lie to her again, but you told yourself that this wasn't a lie, that it was for a good cause.

That, of course, is when you started gambling. It wasn't much at first, a bet here, a bet there. Small, penny ante stuff. A way of blowing off steam. A little excitement in your life, because you couldn't do all the stuff that other college kids were doing.

It couldn't hurt, right?

You know that you've done a lot of things wrong in your life. But the one thing that you're grateful for is that she never knew what you were on your way to becoming. One of the last memories you have of the two of you together is of her on the day you graduated from college, sitting there, smiling and applauding. She told you that she was proud of you, and you were surprised at how good that made you feel.

"Not bad for a work in progress, huh Grams?" you asked as you slung your arm around her shoulders, and she laughed, delighted, pride shining in her eyes as she looked up at you.

Six months later, you went to wake her up before you went to work, and you couldn't.

Everyone said that it was a lovely service, but the fact of the matter is, you don't remember a thing about it. Lots of people came, shook your hand, told you how sorry they were, but you couldn't have told anyone who they were, or what they said. People asked you what you were going to do now, where you were going to go, and you didn't know. Las Vegas was home; this house was the only home you'd ever known, and you weren't so sure that you wanted to leave that.

So you didn't. You stayed in the same house, got a job at CSI, and your social life, such as it was, revolved around the casinos. You had more spare cash now that you didn't have to look after Grams, and you used it there. You didn't even realise that you had a problem, and no-one else did either.

Then you were shadowing a rookie and you left her on her own. It had happened to you a hundred times when you were a rookie; no big deal, that's what you told yourself. You'd placed bets on CSI time before, and nothing had ever come of it.

But this time, the perp came back to the scene of the crime and he shot her. He shot her and she died and it was all your fault.

If you hadn't left her.

If you hadn't got in bed with Judge Cohen.

If you hadn't gone to place that bet.

If Grams could see you now.

You caught a break when Grissom said that he wasn't going to fire you, even if you spent weeks, months, trying to prove to him that you were worthy of the second chance. Living and working in Vegas, gambling capital of the USA, if not the world, wasn't easy for you, and every day was a struggle, some more so than others. There were times when you were tempted, times when you'd do anything for a bet, but you weren't going to let the people who believed in you down. You hoped that wherever she was that Grams was looking at you too, and you were hoping that you could prove that you might be a work in progress still, but that you were working. That you were trying.

It was around that time that you met her.

You didn't think that you'd get along, and at first, you didn't. That was to be expected after all; she was investigating you. Her recommendation to Grissom had been that he fire you. Actually, she made the recommendation twice, because she investigated you twice. The second time, you had a harder time understanding. After all, she'd been working with you for months, you'd thought that you were getting somewhere. Then she went and investigated you behind your back, instead of just asking you. You'd pointed that out to her, and she'd look chastened, but you'd never mentioned it again.

After that, an uneasy alliance seemed to form between you, and out of that, you ended up as friends.

Somewhere along the line, you ended up becoming more than friends.

Somewhere along the line, you ended up here, with her sleeping in your arms.

There are times when you can't quite believe it yourself, times when you look at her across the room and wonder what the hell a woman like this is doing with you. You want to ask her if she's lost her mind, if she knows what she's doing. You don't, of course, just in case you let her in on the secret. But you have a funny feeling that she knows anyway, because sometimes she'll catch you looking at her, and she'll give you that special smile of hers, the one that she swears is just for you, or she'll press herself closer to you, squeeze your hand or your shoulder just a little bit tighter when no-one is looking.

It doesn't matter. You still find yourself, in moments like this, looking down at her and wishing that Grams could have met her.

She shifts in your arms now, turning towards you, and her eyes flutter slightly, long lashes moving against her pale skin. You hold your breath, wondering if she'll wake, and before long, you have your answer when her lids open, brown eyes instantly screwed up against the brightness of the room. She burrows her head into your chest, as if that's going to recapture the sleep that she's lost, and you do your best to keep from laughing out loud.

"What time is it?" she mumbles, or at least, you're pretty sure that's what it is. Anyone else would probably ask her to repeat herself, but anyone else doesn't know her as well as you do.

"Early," you tell her, one hand moving through her hair, the other moving down her back and lower, causing her to twist against you. "Go back to sleep."

"Mmmm." There's something in her tone that makes you think it's a negative response, and when she props herself up against your chest, eyes wide awake and alert, you know that the day is about to begin. Her lips meet yours quickly before she pulls away, and her eyes narrow into curious slits. "What were you thinking about?"

You shrug as best you can when she's lying on top of you like this. "Stuff," you tell her, your hand moving from her hair, sliding down her arm to her left hand, fingering the ring you put there last night. Your eyes follow the same path, to the small diamond that you've kept safe all this time, no matter how bad your gambling debts were. It looks different on her hand you realise, but not in a bad way. It looks right, and you wonder if that's Grams's way of giving you her blessing.

"Oh…" She draws the word out, and you can hear the smile in her voice as you bring the palm of her hand to your lips and kiss the centre of it. "Stuff…" You look up at her then, brown hair falling over her shoulder and tickling your chest, gap-toothed smile as ever warming your heart, ring cool under your fingers, and for the first time, you don't wonder if she's going to see the mistake she's making. You don't wonder how long this is going to last, because you know that it's going to.

You know that there's stuff to face. You've got to tell Grissom and Brass and everyone else, and you don't know if they'll let you keep working together now. There are still days when you feel the urge to gamble, and you don't know that you'll never give in to that urge.

You know that you're still a work in progress.

But right here, right now, with her, for the first time, you feel as if you're close to finished.